


Pilots Precise

by branwyn



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I've got dibs on Douglas, Martin is the house grown up, RPF is okay if you're the P in the question right?, Vodka, threats of violence against uni students, who wants me to set them up with Martin?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this meme prompt:</p><p>You are one of the students living with Martin in the shared house. How do you get on with Martin? </p><p>http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4885.html?thread=8238357#cmt8238357</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pilots Precise

Martin awoke to the sound of a fist banging against his door. He jerked, startled out of his doze, and a fat copy of Murder On the Orient Express fell from his limp hand.

"Martin, goddammit." The person at his door wasn't shouting precisely, but there was a tight coil of frustration in her voice. "Your light is on, I know you're awake."

From the air vent beside his bed, Martin hears the rising strains of dub step, shrieking laughter, and then a faint shattering sound of broken gas. Right, it was Saturday, wasn't it? He should have been expecting this, only crossing the international date line three times that week had left him a bit confused. He glanced around the room quickly, checking for stray underwear or moldy dishes lying about, then opened the door.

"Oh, thank fuck." Branwyn pushed past him into the room, clutching her laptop to her chest. "Here." She thrust a large bottle of vodka into his hands, then stooped to pick up a two liter bottle of ginger ale from the floor. "I have a moral obligation to drink until I pass out tonight. It's the only thing that going to keep me from burning down the house down with everyone in it."

"It's not that bad," Martin chided, hiding a smile. "At least this lot actually pick up after themselves the next day. You should have been here a year ago."

"I hated college students back when I _was_ a college student." Branwyn began rummaging through Martin's small collection of dishes until she located two clean glasses. "My friends and I got decently, quietly hammered in our rooms and held protracted debates on the existence of God. I didn't invite twenty people over to watch me do Jello shots off my roommate's navel, for Christ's sake."

Martin blinked, trying to clear away the mental image her words created. "What's Jello again?"

"You know perfectly well. You made me explain last week."

"Heh, sorry." Martin smiled, as Branwyn poured lethal doses of vodka into each glass and topped them off with splashes of ginger ale. "I sort of like hearing you say it in your accent. You put all sorts of…extra syllables into things."

"Whatever, aluminium."

"That didn't make any sense, are you sure you're not drunk already?"

"Luckily for everyone, I actually get less belligerent when I drink." Branwyn handed him the glasses, then held her own up for a toast. "Cheers. To being the only adults in this overgrown daycare center."

"Cheers. And it's nursery school, here."

Branwyn scowled and poured half the glass down her throat. Martin's eyes watered just looking at her. He took a more cautious sip of his own drink and set it aside. 

Martin had first met Branwyn a few months ago, the day she moved into the house. Martin had been returning from a brief flight to Paris, and had paused upon exiting his van at the sight of an unfamiliar woman attempting to lug two suitcases, a shoulder bag, a briefcase, and an overflowing laundry basket through the front door all at once. She'd smiled at him, politely but incredulously, when he offered to take some of the luggage off her hands, and Martin had managed to stammer out the explanation that he actually lived here, and wasn't just an inexplicable man in a captain's uniform following women down their front walks. 

"You really live here?" she'd said.

"Yes…"

"How old are you?"

Americans, Martin had thought. "Th-thirty four."

"Oh, thank you, _Lord_ ," she'd exclaimed, lifting her face briefly to the heavens. "They said it was all teenagers. I thought I was gonna be the only person here who could remember the Challenger exploding. Um, if you'd get the basket, that would be great, thanks."

Branwyn was a novelist, she'd explained, which was, apparently, not the get-rich-quick scheme that J.K. Rowling made it look like. "I got ten grand for my first book," she'd told him, over a cup of tea in Martin's attic that evening. "Which I pretty much used up moving to England and trying to live in London for six months. And then I thought, this is stupid, England's about five miles wide, I can hop a train if I need to reach civilization. So I picked a random hole-in-the-wall off the map and checked the apartment listings. Sorry, flat listings. This place is cheap enough I don't have to work at a pub for cash under the table just to keep myself Pilot Precise fine points and moleskines." 

Martin found her a bit strange at first, and her company was something of an acquired taste, but she didn't loom or glower at him like she did the students, and unlike most people who found out about his…arrangement with Carolyn, she didn't seem to think it was strange that he was willing to work for free. "I'm hardly in a position to criticize," she pointed out. "I'm thirty, and I just sold my first book last year. I've been writing novels since I was sixteen, for bupkis. Having a mission in life is its own reward, I reckon."

They didn't see too much of each other, as Branwyn spent her days writing on the terrace of a local cafe ("my office", she called it) and Martin had two jobs to keep him occupied. But every time the students had a weekend party, which was nearly every weekend, Branwyn eventually made her way up to his room, with an offering of alcohol or takeaway, and they sat side by side on his narrow bed and watched QI on her laptop. Branwyn told him stories about growing up around swamps and hurricanes and truly frightening wildlife, and Martin told her stories about MJN. She seemed to enjoy them, and Martin enjoyed having an audience, except for the rather alarming fact that she seemed to be developing a crush on Douglas without ever having met him.

"So, um. How's the novel coming?" Martin asked, halfway through their second drink.

Branwyn snorted. "Speaking of setting things on fire."

"That bad?"

"No, I mean I'm literally about to make one of the characters set the house on fire. Three chapters in a row, they've been sitting around in a room, drinking coffee and talking about what they're going to do next, and it looks like the only way I'm ever going to get them out of there is if their only other option is death." Branwyn set her glass on the window sill. "What about you, how are…planes?"

"We've been all over, this week. Russia, India, Canada. Douglas and I ran out of word games on the last return trip, we had to fall back on Mornington Crescent."

"Some fucker tried to play that shit with me last week. He just figured I wouldn't know the rules because I was American. I was like, we have the internet in the states, dude."

Martin arched an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. "You really do swear a lot. Is that because you're a yank?"

"Nah, it's cause I grew up Baptist. Hey, can I put the window up?"

"Oooh." Martin glanced at the door furtively. "We really shouldn't, the landlord will fine us if he finds out."

"Even _if_ he shows up tonight, he's going to be too busy yelling at Rory's friends for peeing in the rose bushes. Here." Branwyn extracted a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one, then handed it to Martin, before lighting one for herself. "Anyway, Laura's friends are toking up in the bathroom downstairs."

"Damn." Martin inhaled and shut his eyes as the nicotine filled his head, making his vision swim. "I should have a word with her."

"Be my guest. The last time I asked her to do her dishes before they developed sentient life, she told me I wasn't her mum." Branwyn flicked ash out of the window. "As though any child of mine would survive to adulthood without basic housekeeping skills."

"She's just scared of you, you know. They all are, you're…scary."

"Oh, really."

"You're tall, you always wear black, you use big words."

"The fuck I do."

"When you're not swearing, anyway. You carry a _knife_ , for God's sake."

"It is a Swiss army knife, not a…machete! Anyway, I only use it to slice apples and open beer." She frowned at him. "Are you scared of me?"

"Terrified."

"I'm nice to you! I brought you vodka."

"Which I was too frightened not to drink." Martin polished off the rest of his glass, to make his point, and Branwyn refilled it, this time skipping the ginger ale, and topped up her own glass.

"I bet Douglas wouldn't be scared of me." She nudged his ankle with her toe. "What do you think?"

Martin groaned. "Not this again. This is like you trying to get me to set you up with my dad, you realize."

"Not interested. Not if he's as short as you."

"Oi!"

"It's fine." She patted his wrist fondly. "Lots of people love tiny men. You're very attractive. Probably."

"You're not helping."

Branwyn moped into her glass. "I bet Douglas likes petite, posh women. With little bird wrists and hair salon bills that rival the GNP of developing nations."

"That does sound a bit like his last wife, actually," Martin admitted. "She cheated on him though, so he might be off posh women. That would be good news for you."

"Hang on, I'm trying to be insulted. Almost there--no, sorry, can't help you."

"If you're really that keen, you could come to the airfield with me next week. We're on standby, which is a load of sitting around while Douglas gets paid to do nothing. He'd probably be up for it just to relieve the boredom."

"Oh good God, I'm not looking for a quick screw. I can get that anywhere."

"Lucky you."

"I just want to meet someone who's read Proust. Is that too much to ask?"

"There's probably a website for that."

Branwyn flopped over sideways, angling her head on Martin's pillow. "Just an expression. I hate Proust."

Martin smiled, then levered himself off the bed and ran a glass of water. He carried it over and handed it to Branwyn, who pushed herself up on an elbow to drink it.

"Monday morning, bright and early," he said. "I'll tell Douglas you're a literary genius with a fondness for clever, paunchy, middle-aged men. Make yourself smart. You can wear something…black."

Branwyn beamed at him. "I'll do a survey of all my friends and find out which ones have a secret uniform fetish. There's bound to be at least one. Especially if I advertise on my blog."

"Oh God, don't do that." Martin paused. "…Yet."

Branwyn gave a jaw-cracking yawn, then pushed herself to her feet. "Okay, time for me to go to bed. Although I think I'm going to have to put the fear of God into the children, if I'm going to get any sleep." She paused. "Maybe I'll just put a chair through their speaker."

Martin surveyed the half empty bottle of vodka. It occurred to him that he actually really, really hated dub step. "Or you could…set them all on fire?"

"Capital notion, Captain Crieff. I'll bring the matches?"

"I'll bring the fire extinguisher."


End file.
